


Walking After You

by Whreflections



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Implied Torture, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, Protective Sam Winchester, Season/Series 05, Spells & Enchantments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-23
Updated: 2012-09-23
Packaged: 2017-11-14 20:58:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a hunt alone, Dean's jumped by...something. Whatever it hits him with hits him hard, and in his mind, he's back in hell. It's more than Bobby can handle, and he calls Sam to come and take care of his brother...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Written at a time when the boys being separated after Good God, Y'all was breaking my heart. I wanted to bring them back together, but I wanted more than that, wanted to deal with some old issues too. This came out of that. Also, it's gen mostly because back then I didn't write wincest, but even now that I do sometimes I just want to write them like this. Supernatural means a lot to me for so many reasons and tackling this issue in particular was...cathartic isn't quite the right word I don't think, but it's close. <3

_If you walk out on me_

_I'm walking after you_

_-Walking After You, Foo Fighters_

_  
_  
It was 3:30 in the morning when the phone rang. Sam threw his arm out to yank it off the nightstand, his heart pounding in his throat until he pulled the phone even with his line of sight.  
  
  
 _Bobby Cell_  
  
  
He swallowed, felt his heart settle in his stomach. He hesitated, made sure he wouldn’t sound disappointed before he answered the phone. “Hello?”   
  
  
“Sam.” There was a frantic edge to his voice, and Sam sat up, his hand tightening on the phone.   
  
  
“Bobby? What’s wrong?”   
  
  
“It’s your brother.” Sam slung his legs over the bed and switched on the light in one move, his heart hammering against his ribs.  _No. no no no no no no…._  “He’s bad, Sam. I don’t know what happened, but something…something fucked him up real good. He’s hurt, but that’s not the worst of it.”   
  
  
“The worst of it?” An empty echo, it sounded hollow even to his own ears.   
  
  
“He’s…he’s out of it. Every time he wakes up he’s not really waking up; he thinks he’s seeing Alistair or some other damn demon. Whatever did this to him…damned near as I can tell, he thinks he’s back in hell. Not that he’s conscious much to think anything. And the wounds…he was bad when I found him, but there’s new ones showing up all the time like…like some of what’s happening in his mind is showin’ up on his body. I don’t know, Sam. I’ve never seen anything like it.”   
  
  
He was on his feet then, snapping out of the numb shock he’d been in since Bobby’d mentioned Dean. He shoved his arm into his bag, jerked out his jeans and started pulling them on, balancing the phone against his shoulder. “Do you know what he was hunting? Was it a demon, something to do with the apocalypse?”   
  
  
“No. I mean, I don’t know what, but no, it wasn’t the apocalypse. He’d talked to me before he left, just for a minute though. Said Cas hadn’t caught wind of any new major demonic activity and he hadn’t either. He thought he was onto a regular job, though, and he was takin’ it. Springfield, Illinois.” Bobby stopped, cleared his throat. “He’s been keeping me up to date on where he is, his hotel rooms and all of that since he’s…”  
  
  
 _Since he’s alone_. Sam swallowed back the fresh wave of emotion that came with that, regret and self hatred and pain, all of it strong enough to make him sick. “And?”   
  
  
“And he hadn’t called in three days. I was gettin’ really worried, so I tried calling him and I just got his voicemail, three times. That was enough for me; I called Cas and told him to get me out here. Found him passed out and bleeding on the floor in his room. Cas got us back to my place but he couldn’t stay. I called you soon as I cleaned up the worst of this but…”  
  
  
“I’m on my way.”   
  
  
‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’   
  
It had been a month now they’d been apart. He could’ve given the time down the minute, honestly. It had all hurt just as much as he’d known it would, from the second he’d climbed in that truck to now. He’d been doing just what he’d said, working on getting himself straightened out. Except that without Dean…without Dean, he didn’t feel enough like himself to be sure it was doing any real good. He’d resisted calling him every single day, kept telling himself Dean just needed time. At least, that was what he’d hoped. And it was part of what kept him from calling.   
  
  
The other part…if Dean did want him gone, he didn’t want to hurt his brother any more by pushing. If Dean wanted him to let him go, then he loved him enough to do it. God knows Dean had never really asked him for much. If this was what Dean wanted, then he’d told himself he could do it.   
  
  
1 month, and he was still telling himself he could do it. He wasn’t at all sure how long he’d make it before he was begging Dean to let him come back, but for now…for now he’d been holding out. Until now. Until he got that call, he’d been able to tell himself he was doing what was best for Dean by staying away from him but this…  
  
  
He gripped the steering wheel tight, pushed the stolen car harder and hoped to God a cop didn’t try to pull him over. He wasn’t stopping. He could see it in his head, how it could’ve been. Dean all alone in a hotel room, maybe cleaning his guns or falling asleep with the TV on. He was good but he wasn’t perfect, and he couldn’t watch his own back. It could’ve come from behind, maybe gotten in through the window while he was taking a shower if he hadn’t put his salt line down yet. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know what ‘it’ was, the rest of the details were already shaping themselves. It had jumped Dean, and if he’d been there, he could’ve seen it coming. He could’ve warned him, could’ve shot first, and maybe it would’ve been hard but they’d have wasted it and come out of it exhausted and Dean would be bitching about something stupid like getting blood on a clean shirt or just cause he was hungry and wanted take out. He’d have bitched right back, but he’d have pulled on clean clothes and stitched up Dean’s cuts and driven out to get Dean something with red meat and as many calories as possible. More bad TV later, they’d have passed out and everything would be fine.   
  
  
It hurt to imagine it, but he couldn’t have stopped if he’d tried. It kept playing on a loop in his head, a whisper of a reason that he should’ve stayed, even if Dean didn’t want to him. Thinking about it in terms of Dean’s safety made the thought seem just a little less selfish, but the root of it was still the same. Selfish, just like Dean had told him he was so many times before. If being selfish would’ve kept Dean safe, he wasn’t sure he cared.   
  
‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’   
  
It was more than a day’s drive from where he’d been in California to Sioux Falls, but he only stopped once. He snatched a couple hours sleep on the side of the road somewhere in Wyoming, but he woke jittery and less rested than he had been when he’d stopped, images of Dean bleeding alone on a motel floor flashing behind his eyes. He got to Bobby’s around 9 in the morning, hopped up on caffeine enough that his hands shook a little when he got out of the car. At least, he was pretty sure that had to be what it was. Bobby was at the screen door as soon as he got out of the car, wheeling right up to it to push it open.   
  
  
“Sam. Good to see you, boy.”   
  
  
He slung his bag over his shoulder, jogged up to the porch to take the door from Bobby and slip past him. “How is he? Do you know what-“  
  
  
“Slow down just a minute, Sam. Hold it, alright?” He reached out, grabbed his jacket and stopped him when Sam tried to go on to the guest room anyway. “Listen I…” Resigned, he dropped his bag and looked away from the doorway, met Bobby’s eyes. There was apprehension there, pain and sympathy and something else that scared him, that he didn’t want to name.   
  
  
“He’s really out of it, Sam. I mean, he doesn’t recognize a damn thing. It’s like he’s been thrown back in his head to the time he was in Hell and that’s all he’s seein’. He  _really_ believes he’s still there.”   
  
  
“Then let me-“  
  
  
“Sam, dammit boy,  _wait_!”   
  
  
Frustrated, he threw his arms up. “What, Bobby? Look, what else worse is there that you can tell me? I know it’s bad, alright? I just…” He took a deep breath, softened his voice. “I need to see him.”   
  
  
“I know you do, I’m wanting to make sure you know what to expect, that’s all.” He shook his head, looked down at the floor. “If I wasn’t in this damn chair and I coulda taken care of him myself, I wouldn’t have called you.”   
  
  
He jerked back like he’d been slapped. Worse than that. It sounded all too familiar, and he felt his stomach clench.  _When this is over, you lose my number._  
  
  
“Sam, no! No, it’s not…it’s not like that.” He looked up, let Sam see the honesty in his eyes before they dropped again, his head shaking once. “It’s just…I’d have spared you this, if I could. Just…just remember the things he’s saying…he doesn’t know where he is.”   
  
  
Sam swallowed, blinked back sudden tears. “I think I can handle it.” He wanted to say that at this point, there was nothing Dean could say to him that would hurt more than Dean letting him go. Still, he could be wrong. They were Winchesters after all, and for them he’d found that nothing was ever as bad as it could get. There was always another level of low to reach. “What’s he…” He couldn’t finish. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, and he knew he’d be finding out soon enough anyway.   
  
  
“…you’ll see. Just…he’s in there. Guest room. He was sleeping when I heard you drive up.”   
  
  
He was down the hall in instant, pulse tripping unsteady the closer he got to the door. He hesitated, lay his hand flat against the wood to calm his nerves before he pushed it open. Dean was laid out on the bed, the sheets around him stained with blood. Bobby’d bandaged most of it but some were fresh and some were just soaking through, and Sam shuddered before he could move. He looked like he had after the hellhounds had chewed on him. Worse, really.   
  
  
“Dean.” It slipped out on a gasp, and he was at his brother’s side in an instant, grabbing whatever he was reasonably sure wouldn’t hurt. “Oh God, Dean…”   
  
  
He didn’t stir, and he would’ve looked peaceful but for the uneasy rise and fall of his chest, the way his eyes flickered beyond his eyelids. He wasn’t resting. Not really. Sam sank down on the edge of the bed, pressed one hand against a cut at Dean’s temple that was oozing blood.   
  
  
“I’ve been trying to keep up, bandage what I can. New ones show up all the time though, and it seems some of the old ones are healing, every now and then. Makin’ room from the new, I guess.”   
  
  
“Are they-“  
  
  
Dean jolted awake like he’d been shocked, gasping for breath, his eyes popping open wide. “ _Sammy_!”   
  
  
“Dean? Dean, I’m here, it’s-“  
  
  
He screamed, his whole body arching under invisible pressure. “God, Sam,  _please_!”   
  
  
He could feel the tears burning at his eyes, terror scrabbling at him from the inside out as he ran a hand down Dean’s chest to yank his shirt up, watched with horror at the blood that started to pour from slowly materializing slices along his ribs.   
  
  
“God, Dean, ok, it’s ok, here…” Frantic, he snatched at the sheets, pressed a clean section to the wounds, made difficult by the way Dean writhed in pain against the touch.   
  
  
“ _Sammy_ , please, please…don’t let him-“  
  
  
“Dean, I won’t, I swear, I’ll stop it, I’ll…” His throat closed up, choking on helpless fury and horror and the ache in his chest that came from seeing the tears that leaked from his big brother’s eyes as he screamed in pain. A strangled sob wrenched from his chest and he dipped forward, gripped the side of his neck. “Dean, I’m here, ok? Listen to me, it’s not real, alright? It’s not real. You’re back home, we’re at Bobby’s. It’s over, ok? Dean, I’m right here, look at me,  _please_.”   
  
  
He was close, could feel Dean’s frantic panting against his skin and he tried to make Dean look at him, watched for any sign of recognition in sharp green eyes that were practically bleeding terror. For a moment, he could’ve sworn it worked. His breath hitched, almost evened for the span of a second. His eyes seemed to flicker over Sam’s face, and he hoped. But before he could open his mouth to speak, any hint of recognition was gone.   
  
  
“I’ll kill you you son of a  _bitch_ , I swear to God! I told you…” He jerked up, stronger than Sam would’ve ever imagined he’d be under the circumstances, and Sam didn’t even try to stop him as Dean’s hand closed vise tight around his throat. “I told you I’m not gonna fall for this, you understand? You can look like him all you want but I fucking told you, I know, alright? I know.”   
  
  
It was taking a toll on him, pushing so much energy out and it wouldn’t last. It didn’t matter, Sam didn’t have the strength to push him away. He was pretty sure Bobby was yelling something at him in the background, but that didn’t matter either. He was honed in on Dean’s words with morbid fascination.   
  
  
“You won’t ever have him, you understand? Not ever. No matter what you do, Alistair, no matter how you look…I know my brother, you psychotic bastard. You’re not him. You’re not…” His hand weakened then and he jerked, hissed in pain as his wrist blossomed with blood. He muttered something else Sam couldn’t hear before his body went limp, and it was all Sam could do to catch him just enough to ease his fall back onto the bed.   
  
  
He was frozen, and he was dimly aware of the fact that his breath sounded raspy, his throat burning a little with the feeling of dull bruises he was sure would be more apparent later. He twitched when he felt Bobby’s hand on his shoulder, relaxed when he kept it there.   
  
  
Bobby cleared his throat, his voice still thick when he spoke. “See what I mean?”   
  
  
He nodded, took a deep breath and refused to look up. “Is it always that bad, when he wakes up?”   
  
  
“Like that? No. Sometime’s its worse. But he saw you for just a minute there, had to have. Even if he didn’t see you in the right surroundings, he saw  _you_. That’s something. He hasn’t acknowledged me at all. Or Cas, when he was here. He just…”   
  
  
Sam swallowed, slid his hand down to press against Dean’s still bleeding side. “What, Bobby?”   
  
  
“He’s either talking to them about stuff I wish to God I hadn’t heard, or he’s screaming for you. That’s…that’s everything, so far. So just then, he was a little more coherent.”   
  
  
“Yeah, and it obviously helped so much.”   
  
  
“Hey, it was more than I expected. Not that you shouldn’t try, but I don’t think talking to him’s gonna snap him out of this one. It’s not like a coma it’s deeper, more invasive.”   
  
  
He nodded, shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Internal illusion. We’ve seen it before but never anything this severe. Have you-“  
  
  
“Been researching what I can, whenever he’s asleep. Nothing yet.”   
  
  
He let out a long sigh, finally looked over at Bobby. “Keep looking. I’m gonna try to get him cleaned up a little, bandage the worst of this…maybe get some pain pills in him if I can. Have you tried?”   
  
  
Bobby’s jaw clenched, his hand tightening on the arm rest. “If I could wrestle him, I would’ve tried but this-“  
  
  
“Hey, Bobby, it’s-“  
  
  
“it’s not ok, Sam! Would all of you just quit telling me it’s ok? Cause honestly, there’s not a damn thing about any of this that’s anywhere near ‘ok’!”   
  
  
He looked down, chastised. “Sorry, Bobby.”   
  
  
“Nah, I’m sorry, Sam. I’m sorry.” He clenched his eyes shut against the warmth that came with Bobby’s familiar hand on the back of his neck, soothing in the way only Bobby or Dad ever had been. A fact that only served to remind him that it helped, but it was nowhere near as reassuring as his brother’s touch. He swallowed, tightened the pressure of his hand against Dean’s side. “Listen, Sam, he…that’s what torture does to a person. You…you ask for someone familiar, the person you want most, they-“  
  
  
“Bobby, I know, I’ve seen it. I’ve done it.“ And he was trying to be that clinical, to tell himself it was natural reaction just like Bobby was obviously trying to tell him it was. But honestly, none of that mattered. Dean had needed him down there, and he’d been up here fucking Ruby and drinking demon blood, and though he’d always known that on some level he  _knew_ it now, and he could hardly fight the urge to scream until he lost his voice. Or find a way to go back in time and beat the ever living shit out of himself.   
  
  
“He knew you couldn’t hear him, Sam. He would never have blamed you for not saving him. It wasn’t possible. You know that, don’t you?”   
  
  
“Sure.” He looked away, coughed. “Think I’m gonna work on these fresh ones on his side first. Stuff over on the dresser?”   
  
  
Bobby hesitated, and he could feel his nerves fraying in the silence.  _Don’t. I can’t talk about this now, Bobby,shit, please, I **can’t** … _“Yeah. On the dresser.”   
  
  
When he heard the wheels move into the hallway he sighed, his shoulders sagging a little with relief. Now, he had no front to keep up for anybody. He struggled to draw a steady breath, brought a hand down to wipe a thin line of blood from Dean’s cheek. “I’m sorry, Dean.” The whisper felt heavy, so weighted and yet still so very not enough. “I’m so sorry.”   
  
‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’   
  
  
By the time night came, Dean had woken up a dozen more times. Every one had been almost the same, really. None as bad as the first so far, but that wasn’t saying much. He could hear the screams ringing in his ears in the silence now, the way Dean’s voice wrapped around his name like it was the only hope for safety. The way he’d whispered it, almost whimpering as he passed out the last time, an hour ago. Like a prayer. The way people asked for God.   
  
  
He sat on the bed beside him, his knees drawn up and his head resting in his hands. Not even 24 hours. Who knew how long this was supposed to take to kill Dean(if it ever was. More likely, he’d be left in a state of constant torment.), but he knew for certain that if they didn’t find a cure soon, it would definitely kill him. Beyond all doubt.   
  
  
He’d gotten used to it now, and when he felt Dean’s body jerk his jumped almost in unison, his hands snapping down to pin Dean’s wrists to the bed. Last time, he’d flailed around trying to reach God only knew what and busted his arm pretty bad on the corner of the end table. He was being hurt enough by things Sam couldn’t contol; he wasn’t about to let him be hurt by things he could.   
  
  
“Not this, ok? Put me back on the rack, I can’t…I can’t…” The words slipped out quick, quieter than usual, almost panicked.   
  
  
“Dean, Dean, it’s alright, ok? Dean, listen to me, I’m right here. It’s really me ok? I’ve got you, we’re gonna figure this out, but you gotta hear me, man. You gotta snap out of it.” Even if it was useless, he couldn’t help it. He tried to talk to him every time.   
  
  
He cried out in pain, struggled, and Sam looked down in horror as dark bruises spread under the skin where his hands circled around Dean’s wrists. He jerked his hands back like he’d been scalded, his breath catching in his chest. “Dean…Dean, no, it’s not me, ok? It’s not…please, Dean, just listen…”   
  
  
He made a soft strangled noise, something too close to a broken whimper. “Don’t, ok? Just…look, put me back on the rack, ok? That’s more fun for you, right? You like that better anyway, you sick son of a bitch.”   
  
  
Sam swallowed, stubbornly blacked out his mind and tried not to think of what he was talking about.   
  
  
“I’m not torturing them. No matter what you do. I’m just sayin’ don’t do this. Waste of your time.” He was trying to sound strong now, and  _God_  Sam knew that tone like the back of his hand. Dean was panicked, terrified, and Sam could feel fresh rage surging through his veins.   
  
  
“Dean…I won’t…” He could hardly get two words out. It was a miracle, really, he could still manage anything at all.   
  
  
He yelped, a mix of pain and fear, and his body curled up as best he could in the center of the bed. As suddenly as it had started, he was out again. Sam rolled him over gently, eased his head back onto the pillow. His neck was lined in bruises, small, almost matching the dark purple of his wrists, and Sam felt sick with everything he’d already known and never wanted confirmed. He tugged the blanket up around Dean’s shoulders, stumbled to the bathroom and heaved unsuccessfully until he rested on one shaking arm, collapsed on the floor.   
  
  
He didn’t move at the sound of wheels on the linoleum, not until Bobby shoved a cold washcloth into his limp fingers. “Here. It helps.”   
  
  
A laugh bubbled up in his chest, soft and slightly hysterical. “Does it?”   
  
  
He heard Bobby sigh, heard the wheels inch just a little closer. “Sam? What’d he say?”   
  
  
He squeezed the cloth until water ran in thin lines down his hand, the cold startling when it trickled down the inside of his arm. It helped distract him, calm his stomach when it tried to lurch again. “Alistair. I want to tear him apart, Bobby. He died too easy.”   
  
  
“Didn’t you kill him? You and your…” He stopped, and Sam could tell Bobby was thinking he shouldn’t have mentioned it.   
  
  
“I did. But I shouldn’t have. Should’ve used to Colt. But that…that’s not what I’m talking about.” He squeezed his hand harder, his nails digging into the fabric enough to hurt. “The things he did to Dean…I should’ve made him suffer. I should’ve-“  
  
  
“Sam, you didn’t know.”   
  
  
“Didn’t I?” His voice rose, lashing out hard into the space between them. He looked up, steady. “He was in hell, Bobby! I wanted him to talk to me about it but he wouldn’t much, and I let it go. I let it go cause I didn’t  _want_  to know, I didn’t want to hear everything that had happened to him because of me. Christ, if I hadn’t been so busy trying  _not_  to think about the things that happened to him there and actually given some thought to it all, I would’ve realized no matter how he was acting with me, he sure as hell wasn’t ok!” He took a deep breath, let his head fall back against the wall hard. “I guess…I just wanted to believe he was ok.”   
  
  
They fell silent, and Sam could hear the grandfather clock downstairs telling him it was 11 o’clock. Bobby coughed, and the wheels squealed as he backed up. “I need you to come get down a section of books for me.”   
  
  
Sam nodded, weary. “Yeah. Alright.”   
  
  
“You wanna help me do some research? Your eyes are-“  
  
  
“No, Bobby. I would but…” He took a deep breath, felt the sharp throbbing ache already pulling him back to Dean’s side. “I can’t leave him. Not like this. I have to be there.” He stood up, his legs a little unsteady until he caught himself against the wall. “I have to keep talkin’ to him.”   
  
  
“Even if-“  
  
  
“It doesn’t matter, alright? I can’t…I can’t read right now, Bobby, I can’t focus. I just…I need to be with him. I need to see him through this.”   
  
  
‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’   
  
Around 4 AM, it got bad. He had already been awake, unable to sleep, but even expecting it Dean screamed loud enough to shock him. He was ready to check him over, find whatever wound was opening up and try to help but it didn’t take long to find. His throat slashed open, sudden and sharp and Sam could hear himself screaming for Bobby, watching helplessly as Dean choked on his own blood, drowned in it as it flowed down to soak the sheets.   
  
  
Then, it was gone. Healed over, not even a scab or a scar to show for it, and he was knocked out again. If not for the still warm pool of blood, Sam would have thought it was all an illusion.   
  
  
“What the hell happened?” Bobby was shocked, and he sounded exhausted. He was under far too much stress of his own to need this put on him.   
  
  
Sam’s eyes stayed on Dean, on the impossibly solid column of his neck. “His throat. Slashed. And then it just…” He shook his head, gestured helplessly at the air. For the moment, he was done trying to understand. He slid his arms under Dean, gently, hated himself for the way Dean’s breath came just a little rougher as he put pressure on his wounds. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Gotta move you, ok? Just for a minute.” He whispered it against Dean’s ear, let himself bury his head against his shoulder for a just a second. It was soaked through with blood, and it didn’t quite comfort him like normally would have. Still, blood or not, Dean was still alive. That was something. He lifted him carefully, lay him down on a rug near the foot of the bed. “Can you watch him a minute? I’m gonna get the sheets changed.”   
  
  
Bobby nodded, moved in close enough to see Dean’s chest rise and fall. Sam worked quick, and when he was done he hesitated, taking in the state of Dean’s clothes. His shirt was the worst of it, and Sam carefully worked it off, picking Dean up and maneuvering him back into the bed without bothering with a fresh one. He talked to him quietly while he got him settled, soft words of comfort he barely realized he was saying.   
  
  
When he looked up, Bobby was gone. He took his place beside Dean, up against the headboard. He let his hand fall, resting on his brother’s chest, just over his heart. He could feel the unsteady beat of it under his hand. It wasn’t exactly comforting, but it was connection. At the moment, it was everything.   
  
  
‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’   
  
“Anything?” It came out hoarse, the effort rasping painfully at his dry throat. He coughed, looked up questioningly at Bobby.   
  
  
He shook his head, grim. “Nothing. Nothing yet. But there’s plenty still left to check. We have no idea what hit him with this so…”  
  
  
“Witch?”   
  
  
“Mm, maybe. Hell, could be some freaky kind of illusionistic creature we’ve never gone up against before. There’s tons of those.”   
  
  
Sam nodded, looked back down at the cut he was bandaging over Dean’s collarbone. He finished, smoothed out the edges with gentle pressure.   
  
  
“Sam, I haven’t pushed, but this has gotta stop.”   
  
  
He snapped his head up, on the defensive. “I’m not leaving him. Not like this.”   
  
  
“And I’m not asking you to! I just want you to eat something!”   
  
  
“I’m not hungry.”   
  
  
“Bullshit you’re not! It’s been three days you’ve been here, Sam! You barely take any water, and if you’ve slept at all I haven’t caught it.”   
  
  
He swallowed, his eyes flickering down to Dean, taking in the rapid movement of his chest, the dark shadows under his eyes. “I’ll eat when he eats.”   
  
  
“ _Sam_!” He wasn’t as mobile as he’d always been but he did as much as he could with what he had, reaching over the bed and yanking Sam’s collar to pull him closer, shaking him. “You listen to me, alright? We don’t know what’s going on with him. You gonna ask me to maybe lose you both at the same time? You think I can survive that?”   
  
  
He sucked in a startled gasp, his hand shooting out immediately to clasp Bobby’s shoulder. He hadn’t thought of it, really. Not like that. “I’ll…if you bring something in here I’ll try to eat something.”   
  
  
“And you’ll sleep, afterward?”   
  
  
He hesitated, his eyes flickering to his brother again.   
  
  
“He’ll wake you, Sam. No way you’ll sleep through it.”   
  
  
He caved, and 30 minutes later he’d managed to keep down a bowl of soup and piece of white bread that tasted better than they should have all things considered. He let Bobby turn out the lights, curled onto his side beside Dean, one arm under his pillow and the other stretched out into the space between them, his hand ready and waiting to slip onto Dean’s shoulder when he woke. So far it hadn’t done much, but deep down he had to keep hoping that  _somewhere_  in there, Dean could feel his presence. Somewhere, Dean had to know Sam wasn’t about to let him go through this alone. Not again.   
  
  
Before he knew it, he’d drifted off.   
  
  
‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’   
  
“ _Sammy_!”   
  
  
He sat bolt upright, gasping for breath and springing into action like he’d been doing this for years. It almost felt like it, at this point. He pinned his shoulders gently, held him down as carefully as he could without hurting him, hoped to God he wouldn’t trigger Dean into remembering something else. “Shh, Dean…I’m here. I’m here, man.”   
  
  
“Sammy…” His voice dropped, whisper soft and there was a tinge of something close to recognition there, but it was too dark to see Dean’s eyes, much too dark for Dean to be seeing him at all. “He’s…must be almost the end of the day.” His words slurred together, thick and almost intoxicated off what had to have been unendurable pain.   
  
  
He hesitated, decided to see if Dean could answer, now that he wasn’t screaming. “End of the day?”   
  
  
“Yeah. Never get you see you, not till it’s almost over. Before…’fore I die and Alistair…” He trailed off, mumbling something Sam couldn’t quite catch before crying out sharply, some unknown pain sparking with fresh agony. “ ‘s nice. Kind of like really dying. For a minute.”   
  
  
“Every day, huh?” He fought to keep his voice steady, clean.   
  
  
“You know…you remember…you’re just in my head anyway.” He laughed once, rough. “Still. Good to hear…” He hissed in pain, lost his train of thought. “Always the end of the day. Think Alistair’s late. Should be dead already…feelin’ better now.”   
  
  
“Yeah?” Single words, that was easier.   
  
  
“Yeah.” He could hear Dean gasping for breath in the dark, and he tightened his grip on his shoulder, warm and possessive. “You know I told you not to come…not to get me out….”  
  
  
“Yeah, Dean?”   
  
  
“I wish you would. I can’t do this, Sammy. Never tell you that, but it’s not really you so…” He gasped sharp, his chest seizing hard to draw in another breath. “Sammy…” In hell, it would’ve been his last breath. Here, he was back asleep again, and Sam could hear the sound of his breath almost even out before starting up pained again.   
  
  
He let his head sink, resting against Dean’s shoulder. He could smell blood and sweat and something unnatural that just wasn’t his brother, and when he finally pulled away he left his skin wet with tears. It was a long time before he could make himself get up, stumble to the light and make his way down to Bobby’s study.   
  
  
He all but collapsed into a chair on the other side of the desk Bobby seemed to have taken up residence at, his hands falling loudly to meet the wood. “He knew me.”   
  
  
“What?”   
  
  
“Well, not really. But I was able to have a conversation with him. He didn’t know it was me…I mean he knew it was  _me_  but he thought…” He looked away, rubbed his palm against the grain. “He thought I was an illusion. He thought he was just dying.”   
  
  
“So you were able to break through it enough to talk to him?”   
  
  
“I don’t know, Bobby. I don’t know if it’s really more or less than he knew me the minute I came in. Hell, it could just be a coincidence, you know. That might’ve just been what he was reliving right then. He might’ve talked to you like you were me if you were there.”   
  
  
He pulled a book off the stack, ran his fingers down the spine before shoving it away angrily, unable to even glance at the first page.   
  
  
“Sam? What’d he say to you?”   
  
  
He clenched his jaw, shoved the chair back violently from the table. “I have to get back to him.”   
  
  
‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’   
  
On the sixth day, Bobby came in and dumped a stack of books at the foot of the bed. Sam met his eyes, questioning, and Bobby didn’t look ready to argue.   
  
  
“There’s a mountain of crap in there and you’re  _gonna_  start helping me sort through it. I get that you have to talk to him while he’s awake, but sittin’ here watching him bleed is doing  _no one_  any good.” He shoved a book toward Sam, forceful. “And I’d have thought you’d have known that, considering how much of a headstart you’ve always had on the rest of us when it came to research.”   
  
  
He surged forward, fury sparking from his near non-existent nerves. “You wanna know why, Bobby? Cause I spent so much damn time wrapped up in doing what  _looked_  like the right thing, what  _looked_  like the bigger picture, and the whole goddamn time he was still suffering right in front of my eyes and I didn’t even _fucking_  realize it! So you know what I want to do now? I wanna take care of my brother.” He fell back against the wall, felt the breath rush out of his chest. “For as long as he’ll let me. And when he’s better, I’ll get the hell out.”   
  
  
“Sam…” His voice softened, all rough sympathy and understanding. “Just…just help me look a little, alright? Maybe you’ll get lucky, find just what we need to break whatever mojo’s been put on him.” He turned, had almost wheeled himself to the door before he stopped. “You really leaving again when this is over?”   
  
  
He clenched his hand into a hard fist, felt the skin stretch over his knuckles till it burned. “Yeah. I really am.”   
  
  
“You care to tell me why?”   
  
  
He shifted, his hand coming down to rest against Dean’s arm when he murmured in his sleep. “Cause Dean wants it that way.”   
  
  
One of the good things about Bobby…he knew just when to push and when to leave it the hell alone. This one, he let go. For now.   
  
  
‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’   
  
On the eighth day, he found it. Dean had just gone through a particularly bad spell, blood seeping from below his knees and his shoulders turning purple in a way Sam didn’t even want to contemplate. He’d tried to get him settled back down, had picked up a random book for what felt like the umpteenth time…and there it was.   
  
  
 _Liconasus was indeed possessed many days by the foul spirit forced onto him by the Witch. He was inconsolable, subject to strange injuries and apparent remembrances of the time he’d served in an enemy war camp five years previous. We feared anger the Witch further by pursuit, and were at length able to devise a cure from known remedies, as well as a few Herbs of magick some of the others had known her to use._    
  
  
He skimmed the list, all but hyperventilating. This? This wasn’t bad. A few things Bobby wouldn’t have right off hand maybe, but he might. Even if he didn’t, worse case it’d only take a day or so to get them through the right channels. Brew the tea, wait 24 hours, and Dean would wake up, his mind in the right time, no memory lost. Of course, the whole ‘no memory lost’ part likely meant remembering the past week as well, it was more than worth it if it healed him.   
  
  
He leapt out of bed, racing into the library and almost violently shoving the book in Bobby’s face. “Here. It’s here. I know that’s it.”   
  
  
Bobby inspected it, muttering as his forehead creased over the more unusual ingredients. “Yeah. Sounds like it alright.”   
  
  
“Have you got it?”   
  
  
“Got it all. Just let me get it all together and we’ll get that tea started.”   
  
  
‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’   
  
  
12 hours later, and he could hardly look away. He’d spent days watching his brother in agony. Seeing him sleeping peacefully now seemed like such a luxury, something to be treasured and appreciated. Still…he needed to go. He stood up, brushed a hand against Dean’s shoulder and hesitated, almost thinking better of it before he bent and kissed his forehead, glad to find him alive and warm but not to the point of fever. He was going to be just fine.   
  
  
And by the time he was, he’d never know Sam had been here at all. 


	2. Part II

When he opened his eyes, the light hurt. He winced, took a deep breath and realized that although his ribs felt sore like he’d been coughing or something for days, they didn’t ache the way he would’ve expected. He could remember it all too well, falling to the floor and realizing too late there must’ve been a hex bag somewhere in the room that he’d missed and then blacking out, ‘waking up’ to fire and screams and that goddamned son of a bitch he’d thought he was rid of forever. He took another deep breath, threw an arm over his eyes to block out the light for a minute.   
  
“How ya feelin’, kid?”   
  
He let his arm slide off, blinked and squinted over to the side, let his vision focus fuzzily. “Bobby?” His voice was scratchy, raw, and he violently shoved back the memories that reminded him why. He had a lot of practice with pushing hell to the back of his mind, now. It came out in his nightmares but during the day…during the day, he’d gotten pretty damn good at control.   
  
“Hey. You want some water?”   
  
He nodded, pushed himself to sit up against the wall and take the glass of water Bobby was offering. It was cold, so cold it almost hurt but it was good. He swallowed slow, let his head fall back against the wall. “Friggin’ hate witches.”   
  
“You and me both.”   
  
He laughed, low, cracked his eyes open again to look over at Bobby. “How long was I out?”   
  
“9 days for sure, probably longer. You hadn’t called for three days so I tried callin’ you, got Cas to take me out there when I got no answer. Found you on the floor.” He sat forward, his eyes a clear mix of curiosity and concern. “What happened?”   
  
He shook his head, tried to remember exactly how he’d slipped up. “She was on to me, I guess. Nasty old bitch, I can tell you that. She’s been prolonging her life through some life stealing ritual, has to perform it every 25 years. Takes 13 bodies. Anyway, she was about halfway through her quota in Springfield when I started poking into it. Takes her awhile, see, cause she can only take one a week. Anyway, she musta figured out I was trying to find a way to get at her. Slipped a hex bag in my room or something.” He took another sip, rolled his shoulders experimentally and found that though there was a dull ache, he really didn’t feel all that bad. “Hey ah…thanks. For…” He gestured vaguely at himself, at the dark stains he could see marking the sheets. “I don’t know what all was goin’ on here exactly but looks it was about the same as what I was…”  _As everything that happened, down there. Everything I thought I was past._  “Anyway, musta been a handful looking out for me so…thanks for that.”   
  
“Dammit…”   
  
Dean looked up, his eyebrows lifting. “Bobby,-“   
  
Bobby held up his hand, stopping him. “ _Don’t_. I’ve had it, and I didn’t even last as long as I thought I would. And I already knew I’d tell you!”   
  
“Tell me what, Bobby? What’d I say?”  _God, **please**  don’t let him have heard everything…_  
  
“What you said doesn’t matter. What does is the fact that it wasn’t me taking care of you.” He stared him down, and Dean turned away, unwilling to read anything in his gaze.   
  
“Cas? Where is he, I thought-“  
  
“Are you really that stupid? Huh? You really that stubborn that you refuse to believe Sam would be willing to help you now?” Dean opened his mouth, ready, but Bobby wouldn’t let him speak. “ _No._  You let me finish. I called him cause I knew this was gonna be more than I could deal with right now, and he pretty much broke the land speed record to get to you. He stayed right there-“ He jabbed his finger at the empty space beside him, the sheets there rumpled but largely free of blood. “And he hardly moved a damn inch the whole time you were out of it! I swear, Dean, I’ve never seen the poor kid so focused! He couldn’t help you, but he kept trying, kept telling me he wouldn’t let you go through this alone, cause he should’ve been there the first time around and he wasn’t.” He moved closer, held Dean’s eyes with the intensity in his own. “I know you’re hurt. I do. But Dean, he’s your  _brother_. And whatever he’s done, you mean everything to him. The things he had to see this week, the things he  _heard_? If you wanted him punished, he has been. Trust me.”   
  
“Bobby…” He cut his eyes down, fought the tears he could feel welling behind them as he looked away. “I…”  
  
“Personally, I  _wish_  I could’ve taken care of you myself so he wouldn’t have had to go through that but if I had, I’m not sure he would’ve forgiven me. You think somehow you’re not his responsibility too? Just cause he got a little screwed up _don’t_ mean he doesn’t love you, Dean. The two of you need each other, and dragging this out into something big in the middle of the damn apocalypse is  _ridiculous_. You wanna shut him out cause you think that’ll keep you from ever getting hurt again? _Fine._  But I am  _not_  helping you do it.”   
  
He looked up into the light and let him blind enough to burn a little. This was everything he didn’t want to think about, everything he didn’t want to consider but even so he couldn’t help thinking about parts of it. He could remember with perfect clarity the level of internal hell he’d reached hearing Sam scream himself hoarse down in the panic room, and then, he hadn’t even been yelling for Dean. Mostly. Thinking about what Sam must’ve heard…  _If he still cared._  His heart clenched, thinking it, but he shot the thought down quick. Much as he didn’t want to acknowledge it, the puppy eyes he’d gotten every day between Lucifer’s release and the day Sam left were more than enough proof that Sam still cared enough to be willing to pretty much beg, at least. And he probably  _would_ have been willing to big if Dean had given any indication to him that it would do any good. At the time, it hadn’t meant enough. It was easier to assume that if he trusted Sam now, it’d come back around to bite him in the ass. Easier to remember their relationship like it was and think of it as something lost, something utterly out of reach, something he could never have again. If he thought of Sam as being already gone, then it was easier to let the person that wasn’t _really_ his brother go. At least, that was the reasoning he’d used.   
  
It felt much less solid now.   
  
“Can I see him?”   
  
“Nothing I want you to do more, but I can’t help you with that. He’s gone. Took off this morning, while you were still sleeping. He’s been gone ‘bout 10 hours or so now. Said he didn’t want you to know he was here, but I thought that was bullshit so I didn’t promise him anything.”   
  
His fingers twitched, already inching toward his pocket where his phone should be. “He ah…he say where he’s going?”   
  
“No. But knowing the state of mind he was in after the past few days, I’m pretty damn sure he’s headin’ to Springfield.”   
  
“What?” He threw his legs over the side of the bed, practically bolting out of bed. “Bobby, are you  _crazy_? What the hell are you thinking, letting him do that alone? That witch is one seriously messed up bitch; she could do anything to him!”   
  
“Yeah, and after seeing what she did to you, you really think anything I said could’ve stopped him?”   
  
He was shaking his head, yanking his shirt over his head. “When did he leave?”   
  
“Around 10 this morning. He’s probably just getting there now.”   
  
“Son of a bitch…” He shoved his hands into his pockets, remembering too late that the Impala would still be back in a motel parking lot in Springfield. “Son of a  _bitch_!” He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Is Cas-“  
  
“Busy. Taking on some temple translation over in the Middle East. He’s been outta cell reach last couple a’ days.”   
  
“You have a car?”   
  
“Blue Nissan out back should be runnin’, but I’m not sure she’ll get you to Springfield.”   
  
“It’ll have to do.”   
  
‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’   
  
Getting into Springfield, it had been easy enough to find Dean’s motel. He’d only had to check two before he found it, the Impala in the parking lot giving it away when he pulled in. He’d picked his way into Dean’s room, gritted his teeth against the rage that came when he saw the bloodstained carpet between the two beds. He’d forced himself to focus, fished around in the room until he found Dean’s research and skimmed through it all as quickly as he could.   
  
There wasn’t much, and it didn’t take long. Dean never had been one to write much down, even when he was compiling his cases. There were a few printouts, a couple of scribbled notes, and their Dad’s journal open to a page on life prolongation rituals. It wasn’t a wealth of information, but it was enough to give him what he needed. He’d had an address and the confirmation that this for sure was a witch, and that was all he needed. He’d taken the Impala and parked outside her house, and it was only then that he really started to consider what exactly he was going to do.   
  
Clearly, she was major bad news. He couldn’t exactly expect to just burst in there and take her, even if he felt like he was angry enough to pull it off. He was going to have to put at least some thought into this. Consecrated wrought iron, for sure. Last time he’d checked there was a box in the trunk, and considering they didn’t use as much of that as they did rock salt, there should still be plenty. Other than that he was pretty short on ideas, and at the moment he didn’t exactly have the patience to sit down and plan. In his head he could still hear Dean screaming, still his body wracked with pain every time he shut his eyes. He couldn’t kill her fast enough.   
  
He got out and slammed the door, dug around in the trunk and loaded his gun with the iron rounds. The lights were all out, and he went around to the back, picking the lock in a matter of seconds. It was quiet in the kitchen, though the faucet dripped and he could hear the creak of wood under his boots. Other than that…nothing. He let out his breath slow, closed the door carefully behind him. Either she was asleep, or she was out. Or she was in the basement getting ready for her next kill. This would be so much easier if she was asleep.   
  
He took another step, turned into the next room. There was a fire burning in a brazier on the dining room table, and he could smell a strange edge to the smoke, something that burned down his throat. Whatever it was it wasn’t familiar, and alarm bells were going off in the back of his head, telling him he needed to get the hell out,  _quick_.   
  
He’d barely taken five uneasy steps when his knees buckled.   
  
‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’   
  
Driving into town he didn’t even bother stopping at the motel first. He went with instinct(or was it dread?)and tried her house first, one hand slamming hard against the steering wheel when he saw the Impala parked across the street.   
  
“Jesus, Sammy…” It was early morning, the light just beginning to blaze over the horizon as he ran around behind the house, gun in hand. He didn’t bother with trying to pick the lock, he just kicked in the flimsy wooden door, unsurprised to find it blasted explosively open. It didn’t matter. He was past subtlety, at this point. “Sammy!”   
  
Nothing. He whipped around the corner into the dining room, gun first. There were ashes in a brazier on the table, but the fire had long burned itself out. It was quiet, too goddamn quiet. He could smell herbs in the air, aloe and a mixture of far too many things to name, some he probably hadn’t even heard of before. This bitch was into the deep stuff, God only knew how long she’d been keeping herself going at the expense of so many lives. He licked his lips, tightened his grip on the gun and burst around the next corner, unsurprised to find nothing yet again. His nerves were jangling, the back of his mind scrabbling with panic the almost uncontrollably frantic urge to _find Sam_.   
  
He turned the next corner, saw the door to the basement cracked. A trap if he’d ever seen one, but at this point he _really_ didn’t care. He kicked it open, led with his gun even though he knew he wouldn’t be encountering anything. Yet. She’d come from behind, probably when he was down there looking Sam over.   
  
He practically ran down the stairs, pulling his flashlight from his belt to shine down into the darkness. “Sam?” He didn’t care that she knew he was here. Not at all. In fact, it’d be better. Distract her from anything else she might be doing. It looked pretty big down there, section off, and when he first went to the right he found nothing. He darted left, around a cinder block wall, coming to an almost sliding stop on his knees when he saw Sam chained back in the corner. He slid the gun into his pants, dropped the flashlight beside his knee and took Sam’s face in his hands, wiped blood away from his eyes. “Sammy? C’mon, man, wake up.” He shook him, gentle. “C’mon, Sam. Get up.”   
  
“Mm? Dean?” He blinked, winced at the light.   
  
“Yeah. Yeah that’s it.” He could’ve drowned in the relief. He patted his neck once, brought his hands down to start picking the lock on his brothers cuffs. “How bad are you hurt? What’d she do to you?”   
  
“I…I don’t really know. Not much, I don’t think. I remember…” He swallowed, his head rolling a little farther back as he thought. “I remember coming in here and smelling something I didn’t recognize, thinking she was drugging me, but it had to have been strong, Dean, I couldn’t even get to the door.”   
  
Dean ground his teeth together, yanked the cuffs violently apart. “Yeah, well what the hell were you thinkin’, Sam? Coming after her alone? I mean c’mon, how stupid are you?” it was harsh, harsher than he’d meant to be and he winced when he saw Sam’s eyes flicker to the ground. “Forget it, ok? You’re not…you weren’t thinking.” He turned on his heel, shined the light into the dark back in the direction of the stairwell. “She come from up there or somewhere else? Or have you been out this whole time?”   
  
Sam shifted, rubbed his bruised wrists and pushed himself up higher on the wall. “I’ve been out for most of it, but there’s a couple fuzzy things…not direction, just that…I saw her moving one of the bodies. The marks on his arms…” He looked down at his own, drew Dean’s gaze to a bloody rune etched into the skin near the crease of his elbow. “Maybe she was to do ‘em one at a time? Either way, think it’s pretty clear I’m her next sacrifice.”   
  
“The hell you are. Come on, get up.” He smelled it then, sickly sweet and unfamiliar, and if he listened close enough he could hear her soft chanting. “ _Shit_ , Sam! Hold your breath!” He swung the flashlight around, caught a gleam of gold in the beam and launched himself in that direction. His foot connected with metal, knocking it into the wall with a satisfying clang, jarring open the door of the handheld incense burner and knocking the herbs loose. It wasn’t enough to totally stop the smoldering, but for the moment it lessened the concentration. He had felt a body close for a moment, heard her breath in the space beside him and he reached around for his gun. A blade dug into his arm, sharp and searing, and though he kept his response to a low grunt of pain his hand snapped open on reflex, the gun clattering to the floor.   
  
“Dean!”   
  
“Over here!”   
  
She was chanting again, and Dean sucked in a sharp breath and yanked his injured arm to his chest, spun around and kicked out, his boot striking something solid. He heard air rush out of her lungs and he surged forward, flailing in the semidark for her hair and using it to slam her head into the nearby wall. He didn’t have the momentum he’d need to knock her out, but he felt warm blood ooze over his fingers and when she jerked away from him, her movement was unsteady.   
  
The light stabilized then, and he could see that Sam had picked it up, had it leveled at her. As well as the gun. He fired, his aim true from the first shot. Straight in her heart, and she dropped like a stone. He didn’t stop there. He stepped closer, emptied the gun into her chest, and Dean could see the flaming rage in his eyes that seemed to only burn hotter every time he pulled the trigger. It reminded him sickeningly of watching him kill Samhain, but he didn’t let himself draw away. He stepped up to him, closed his good hand around Sam’s arm and squeezed until he had his brother’s attention.   
  
“It’s ok, Sam. It’s done.”   
  
“The things she-“  
  
His voice shook, and Dean realized that Bobby had had a point when he’d talked about what Sam had been through. Dean nodded, looked down at the body lying still on the floor. “Yeah, I know. But it’s done.” He let his hand slide from Sam’s arm slow, watched Sam lower the gun just as carefully. There was a silence between them now, awkward and unnerving and unlike any Dean would have ever thought there’d be between the two of them. He cleared his throat, busied himself with wrapping his sleeve around his bleeding right arm.   
  
“How’d you find me?” He sounded so damn much like a kid, lost and scared and having run away from the motel room just to see if Dad would come find him. Of course, Dad never did. That was always Dean.   
  
“Bobby.”   
  
Sam nodded, kept his eyes on the body. “Right.” Another second, and he turned toward the stairs, actually made a couple of steps.   
  
“You just gonna walk away? Just like that?” Maybe it wasn’t the best thing to say, but it stopped him.   
  
He froze, his back still turned. “I don’t know, Dean.”   
He coughed, shifted, scuffed one boot against the concrete floor. “Cause I was thinking…there was this case out west, Utah. Old mining territory, think it could be a wendigo. Something’s eating people, I dunno…”  
  
Sam wasn’t making this easy on him. Or, more likely, he didn’t want to rise to the bait only to find it wasn’t really bait at all. Cautious. Yeah, maybe he had the right to be a little cautious.   
  
“I was thinking we should take it. You know. The job.” He swallowed, flexed his hands. God, this was hard.   
  
Sam turned around for that, and the stark  _hope_  in his eyes was like a damn semi to the chest. “Us hunt together again?”   
  
“Only if you want to.”   
  
His face broke into a grin then, pure transformation. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good, Dean.”   
  
He straightened, nodded. “Great. Let’s get to it then.” He took a step, stopped when he realized he wasn’t done. “I’m not…I can’t tell you I trust you, Sam. Not yet. But-“ That look was rising in his eyes again, the one that made Dean feel like he’d just ripped his heart out and run over it with the Impala and it drew him closer, stepping right up to him. “But I can tell you I  _want_ to. And I’m gonna try, really I am. And I promise I  _will_ , if you give me time. Ok?”   
  
He nodded, quick and silent, his head turned away.   
  
“And I…I wanted to say thanks for-“  
  
That got him talking. “ _Don’t_.” His eyes actually met Dean’s, and yeah they still looked a little abused but his gaze was strong, stubborn. “Don’t thank me for that. I should’ve saved you, I promised you I would, and I-“  
  
His voice broke, and Dean closed the last distance between them, his hand gripping Sam’s shoulder tight. “You listen to me, ok? Look you don’t know how much I wish you didn’t know any of the things I’m sure you do now, but I swear to God, Sammy, none of that was your fault, ok? You couldn’t do anything to get me out, and that’s  _not_ your fault. And I never blamed you for it. Not once.”   
  
“But you wanted-“  
  
“Of course I did, Sam! It’s hell!” It hung in the air, sharp and almost rough, and he hated himself for the way Sam ducked his eyes again, still guilty. “Sam, look at me.  _Look_ at me, ok?” He did, slow and reluctant. “Bobby, he said you stayed. The whole time. And I’m tryin’…” He shook his head, fought his own wave of emotion as the now fresh memories from hell brushed through his mind like salt in reopened wounds. “I’m tryin’ to thank you. For staying. For not…not making me do that alone.”   
  
“You didn’t even know I was there.” It was resigned, dejected, and Dean wanted to shake him until he realized that  _nothing_ that happened in hell would have been anything Sam could save him from.   
  
“Maybe not, right then. But that doesn’t make it meaningless.”   
  
They fell quiet, and this one was easier. Maybe not normal, but it felt just a little more genuine. Almost devoid of fear. Dean let go of his shoulder, was letting his arm fall when Sam worked up the courage to ask whatever it was he’d clearly been running over in his head the past few seconds.   
  
“We ah…” He took a deep breath, made himself look Dean in the eye. “Are we ok?”   
  
His eyes were bright, tears and hope and  _Sam_  combined into something so fragile Dean knew it would only take a word to make him shatter. That was Sam, always. He let people see when he was about to break. Dean, he kept it inside, broke quietly and tried to smooth over the fissures with his own plaster until the whole damn thing just collapsed. He nodded, let the tension ease out of his own frame. “Yeah. Yeah I think we’re gonna be ok, Sammy.”   
  
He wasn’t surprised when Sam wrapped him in a tight hug, wasn’t even surprised by how much weight it seemed to take off of him to hold on just as hard, his left hand gripping into Sam’s shirt like it was fused there, impossible to separate. He didn’t care that it lasted longer than his macho pride said it should have, didn’t care that he turned his head to wipe his eyes against Sam’s sleeve as he pulled away. His little brother was smiling at him, the way he had his whole life, and even though everything wasn’t alright, it was good. Whatever it was, it was definitely a good place to start. 


End file.
